


Dissolution

by OtakuElf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Divorce, F/M, Heartbreak, Love, M/M, Multi, Rain, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9703829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: Mystrade.  Mycroft Holmes is suing Gregory Lestrade for divorce.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reyes_Zane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyes_Zane/gifts).



> For Reyes_Zane. Prompt: "I actually would like a Mystrade fiction. Maybe a divorce between the two but they get back together. I'm totally in a angst mood."
> 
> Many thanks to Lunamoth116 for beta reading!
> 
> This was originally posted in Requests.

London was grey. Rain was expected in the city; it was usual. Sheets of spray drifting down from drab clouds seemed more somber now than a year ago. Mycroft Holmes did his best to avoid venturing outside in any weather to begin with. Much as he loved his umbrella - a classic, of course, steel shaft with a carved wooden curve to the handle that felt at home in his hand - the rhythmic patter of rain on the black cloth was not something the man enjoyed.

Someone else he knew loved that sound. Oh, not when forced into a stakeout, dark and clammy and unable to see much beyond the hand in front of his face. Freezing cold and a body in danger of hypothermia were not enjoyable to anyone in their right mind. Mycroft could remember, though, the sound of rain on a slate roof, a cottage by a grey-green sea frothing as it raged toward the rocky shoreline. 

The tall, thin, auburn-haired man would have much preferred to stay for the fortnight in his rooms on Pall Mall. Or the house he’d purchased for them both. Food would be prepared for them by his personal cook, or sent up from any of a number of quality restaurants, instead of by hands unused to cooking in a strange and fairly primitive kitchen. The flagstone floors required slippers and rugs to keep feet from dancing over their frigid greyness. The firewood had been wet, but his newly instated husband had eventually managed to catch it ablaze. They’d left the draft shut to begin with. A brisk sea wind flowed through the house after they’d been forced to open doors and windows to clear out the billow of dingy ash and smoke that had ballooned out into the small sitting area.

The bed had been nice. Just perfectly soft enough to welcome and cradle the bodies curved together, but firm enough that there was no backache after what was a goodly proportion of their holidays spent in it. 

The cottage had gone with Greg when Mycroft left. A consolation prize to the man who had lost out to Her Majesty’s government, though it had not been asked for. There had been the stiff, affronted thrust of a hand holding the deed and the papers requesting freedom when his husband had confronted him. “Do you think this will pay me off, Mycroft? I don’t want anything of yours.”

The Iceman had looked back at him from behind the wide mahogany desk. “The cottage was never anything of mine, Greg.”

It was a lie. And the truth. The cottage had never been Mycroft’s. He had owned it for years, inherited from his father’s sister, when the farmhouse in Sussex had gone to Sherlock. No, the cottage by the sea had never been something of his. Not until he’d been there with his husband. It had become theirs. There was an ache to giving it away, as though he was handing off the memories of love and companionship that they’d created together. Laughter at how inept two adult men could be out in the wild coast, when each was so very competent in their own milieu. Joy at how perfectly they’d fit together on the the bed - and just about every other surface in the cottage. Wonder at waking to watch the sunlight glinting on silver hair falling across the white cotton of the pillowcase, at feeling the soft, steady, sleeping breath on his skin from a man who had chosen him to be with always.

There were other memories, of course. Mornings together. Unlike most couples, those had been one or another of them just coming in after a night of work. Solitary sleeping, but getting to see his spouse over breakfast and a pot of coffee. They’d lunched together, or one might show up at the other’s work with food to force a break on the workaholic. They’d both been, of course - workaholics. Amazing how many of Mycroft’s memories centered on the meals enjoyed together. One of the fantasies Mycroft had engaged in early on was of the pair of them, retired and enjoying tea on a warm summer afternoon. Oddly, the fantasies were not about sex. The sex was very good. But it was distracting as well, to be thinking of his desire at random moments when his husband popped into mind. Mycroft did not think there would ever be a time when he did not find Gregory Lestrade desirable. He was, he admitted, in love with Greg, and would be always.

But Mycroft was not allowed that. Always was not for him. And it should have been for Greg, who deserved so much more than Mycroft would give to anyone. Better in the long run to cut the man loose and give him space to find someone else - a partner who would make him happy, not worried. Or suspicious.

Oh, Gregory Lestrade was not stupid. He had known what he was getting into with marrying the British government. There was patience, and to spare, for late nights and missed anniversaries. There was physical bravery beyond what Mycroft could boast. There was flexibility in living with a man who was rigid as to his habits, and unyielding in his attention to duty. There was understanding when Mycroft drew away to protect his lover from the attentions of Moriarty’s network, at least to begin with. 

Serpent’s words placed in the detective inspector’s ear had not helped - reminding Greg of his ex-wife and her frequent absences, multiple excuses, persistent dalliances. Well-meaning (or not) coworkers who found Greg’s choice of partner odd. The Holmes name an aberration to many at New Scotland Yard. Possibly Mycroft’s own enemies, disgruntled by his innate ability to work around their petty machinations and schemes for selfish aggrandizement instead of the good of the realm.

In the end, not even Sherlock’s “Don’t be absurd, Graham. Mycroft is not an adulterer” could reassure his husband. That had been, for Sherlock, equivalent to massive interference on his brother’s behalf. Not enough, and not understood for what it was. As intelligent as Greg had been, and was, he had been burned before. Mycroft knew well the phrase “Once bitten, twice shy.”

Today, as the grey rain tapped icy fingers against the window glass of Mycroft’s office, the man drew his sharp nose out of his reports and stared out into the darkening sky. He wondered when the packet of signatures would arrive at his solicitor’s office, signalling the termination of his marriage to a man he truly loved. It would be today. Or tomorrow. Or the end of the week. Mycroft knew and loved even Gregory Lestrade’s flaws. Procrastination was not one of them, as it was not in Mycroft’s nature. Best to sever the tie. Sear the flesh and cauterize the wound.

Well, that was a massively unpleasant description. It was inaccurate as well. The pain under Mycroft Holmes’s waistcoat was a piercing sharpness, on top of a dull ache. Not the agony of burning, to be sure, but painful enough in its own right. For Mycroft, it would be a lasting pain. He did not delete nasty, sticky emotions, as his brother had. They were what made him understand the goldfish, and as such were invaluable. 

There was the whisper of his office door sliding open across the thick carpet. He did not look up. “I do not wish to be disturbed,” he said with mild annoyance; his assistant ordinarily had better sense than to enter his space without request.

“Well, that’s too bad.” There were unexpected words in an unexpected voice. “Because I intend to disturb you anyway.”

 _“Greg.”_ The name caught in Mycroft’s throat as he turned to his desk, to see the doorway and the intruder in it. Clearing that lump gave him the moment to gather into the Iceman. “What do you want?”

Gregory Lestrade threw the handful of legal documents among the piles of file folders on the polished surface. “I won’t be signing these.” Blunt and to the point, as usual.

“Why not?” Mycroft asked stiffly. The settlement was more generous than Greg had ever let him be in their married life. That could not be helped.

A hand still decorated with a plain gold band pushed through silver hair wet with rain. “Because I’ve been thinking about all this. This mess.” A nod of the head indicated what Mycroft assumed were the divorce papers. “And I don’t know what you’ve been thinking. Hell, I don’t even know what I’ve been thinking half the time lately. But we’re not doing this.”

It was darker now in the room, but not nearly so drab, and outside it was raining harder. The detective inspector was in his work clothes, a light grey off-the-rack suit, dark blue tie putting a glint of colour into a staid and all-purpose outfit. He’d abandoned his overcoat in the outer office, Mycroft realized, and had left NSY early. “What is it,” Mycroft asked icily, “that we’re not doing? I can think of many things that will no longer be occurring.”

“This.” The hand flashed between the two of them. “You and me. The divorce. We’re not doing it.” Mycroft had always loved Greg’s determination. That same determination was coming back to bite him.

Brown eyes gauged him behind his solid and secure desk. “Right,” the shorter man said as he rounded the desk, grabbing a folding chair along the way. “Your folding chairs are nicer than any of the furniture in my office. Now -” he settled into the chair facing Mycroft “- look at the papers.”

“Papers?” Eyes flickered to the fan of documents Greg had dropped. Too many minute details were scrambling for attention. “You’ve been to the pub with John.” He picked up the pages. “You had a tonic and lime instead of a porter.” Leafing through the papers, he realized aloud, “These are not just the divorce papers. You’re selling the house?”

“Yes.” It was short, those keen eyes fixed on his face.

“Where will you live?” Mycroft’s voice remained steady and calm. 

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I won’t live there without you.” That was said calmly, though Greg’s little tells - the tight jaw, the careful breathing - were all there.

Mycroft’s pale eyes flicked up and down, reading Greg’s suit, his hair. “You slept on someone’s sofa last night.”

There was just a hint of tilt to the head. “Sherlock’s. It’s not comfortable, no matter how much time your brother spends sulking on it.”

“You didn’t drink any alcohol. Aren’t sprees supposed to be consistent with alcoholic indulgence?” It was difficult to know what was going on here. John’s usual remedy for most interpersonal clashes was a night at the pub, drinking lager and throwing darts at things.

Greg looked out through the rain-spattered glass. “Well, Mary and John and Sherlock and I didn’t go out to the pub last night. Tonight they made me have supper before coming here.”

Marvelous. Mary Morstan Watson was involved. “Sherlock forced you to eat?”

Greg leaned back in the temporary chair. “He said, ‘Gavin. No, Gary. Damn it! Lestrade, eat something before you fall down.’” His mimicry was excellent.

“And what did John and Mary tell you?” Mycroft had to admit he was a bit curious.

“Mary and John were there to translate ‘Sherlock speak’ for me,” the detective inspector told him. “As if I couldn’t get the gist of it myself.”

“And?” Mycroft’s eyebrow raised before he could control it.

“‘Are you mad, Lestrade?’” Greg quoted. “‘You’re an idiot. You should listen to me and no one else. My brother has never cheated on you. He is not a philanderer. And he is not a prostitute, even for Her Majesty. And he is in love with you. Sentiment. It’s an awful thing.’”

Mycroft muttered, “Says the man who has an unnatural relationship with his best friend and his best friend’s assassin wife.”

“Yeah, well, they’re trying to figure out how to make 221B bigger on the inside so that there’s space for the Watsons. So that Sherlock doesn’t have to leave Baker Street or Mrs. Hudson,” Greg told him. “And your brother is celibate, as he told me more times than I care to think of last night.”

“If you did not think I was already aware of that -” Mycroft began, only to be interrupted.

“You were the one who called it an ‘unnatural relationship’,” Greg pointed out.

Mycroft sighed. “I was referring to two sociopaths - one of whom is an addict - the good doctor, and the incipient baby.”

“At least they’re talking. And Sherlock has admitted that he has a problem. Unlike someone else I know.” Greg frowned at him. “Of course, when we start counseling, you’ll talk, alright.”

 _“What?”_ Mycroft rarely raised his voice as he did now. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Nope.” Greg popped his “p” in imitation of Mycroft’s brother. It was irritating enough when Sherlock did it. Greg _knew_ this. Greg was deliberately baiting him.

“I’m not going to a marriage counselor with you.” Blunt, a refusal that should garner Greg’s wrath at being balked.

“Suit yourself. I’m going, or rather he’s coming to the flat. And we’re going to talk. We’re going to work this out. You have to come home some time. I’ve got leave coming up, so I can wait.” Greg was attempting to look smug. Which meant, Mycroft thought, that he was rather less certain about his plan than he wanted to appear.

“What do you mean?” the British government asked warily.

“John and Mary - well, and Sherlock - helped me move my stuff to the flat. Our flat. Across the street.” As though he needed to make certain that Mycroft knew where he was living.

“My rooms in Pall Mall?” Mycroft said, even as he despised himself for repeating.

“That’s the place. I’ll be waiting for you there, after you get off work tonight.” There was still the uncertain tone in what Greg was attempting to make strong and sure.

Mycroft closed his eyes and tilted his aching head back against the black leather of his chair. “I could have security remove you,” he said, without opening his eyes.

“You could,” Gregory Lestrade agreed. “But you won’t.”

A deep breath. Then two. There were so many plans solidifying in his head, none of them particularly believable. There were harsh things he could say that would drive this man away. Mycroft knew the buttons to push in everyone around him. He didn’t think Greg would believe them, but they would damage the man Mycroft still loved even further.

“Hey.” Mycroft opened his eyes to find Greg standing over him, the hand clad in their wedding band touching his cheek gently. Greg looked him in the eye. “It’s not easy, I know. It’s work. And it’s not something either of us are good at. Oh, we’re good at the perseverance bit. We’re both smart enough, and tough enough to struggle to get what we want. Sentiment. Not always about losing. It’s a process. We can do this. ” 

It hit Mycroft Holmes that Greg was willing to fight him on this. His British bulldog of a New Scotland Yard detective was holding firm. Perhaps it was not wrong to lose in this. No explosions and rubble and lost lives if he was wrong here. Just pain. And loss. Which he was already experiencing. “All right,” he said, giving in. “We’ll talk.”

“Over dinner?” Greg pursued his advantage.

“Yes, over dinner. Have them send up a meal. I’ll be home -” that felt right, to call it home knowing that Gregory would be there “- in an hour.”

“Knocking off a bit early tonight?” Greg’s eyebrow disappeared into his silver bangs.

Mycroft gave as severe a look as he could manage. “I’m not likely to concentrate on work when I know you’re waiting at home to talk.”

A nod of that silver-haired head, then his husband leaned forward to give him a gentle kiss. “I’ll be waiting.”

Forty minutes later, when Mycroft Holmes strode out of his office, umbrella on his arm to brave the rain in crossing the street, the documents that Greg had left on his desk were only strips of paper under the shredder.


End file.
